Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,59

said.

She used the handkerchief to wipe something invisible off a chair, then sat at the table. “I knew you’d understand. I hate Tomlinson’s damn little wet boat . . . Plus, I feel safer with you.” Cressa hesitated, then decided to risk asking, “You’re supposed to be the dangerous one, right?” In her tone was fascination.

Outside, I heard the clank of a plastic paddle, then a wet little rubber boat went THUMP! against the house.

“Who could that be?” I said, breaking the beam of the dog’s eyes. When I got to the door, I added, “Geezus . . . you’re not going to believe this.”

The woman stood. “Oh, no . . . you’ve got to be kidding! Doc?” The married mistress’s voice could also command, so I turned. “Let me ask you something. Honestly. Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

I focused on her almost Grace Kelly face and answered, “Yes . . . yes, I am.” Which was true—but not in the same way that Hannah Smith scared me.

“You shouldn’t be!”

“It’s a rule I have about breaking up marriages. I try not to rationalize what I personally wouldn’t tolerate.”

The woman was miffed. “But you’re wrong. Rob and I, our marriage is so over—Tomlinson understands that, and we’re still friends.”

Opening the door, I replied, “Tomlinson is a more spiritually advanced person than me. He’ll be up here in a second—just ask him.”

16

THE NEXT MORNING, I AWOKE BEFORE SUNRISE IN A hammock I’d brought back from Nicaragua and strung between two hooks outside on my porch. It’s a double-wide, woven from fine heavy cotton in a mountain village where hammocks are made for sleeping, not decoration. Plenty of room and lift for two, but I awoke alone.

I threw off a blanket and sat up. Dew was heavy, dripping off the tin roof, the morning gray and still in the silver predawn light. But not too early for a boat to be idling down the channel toward my house. One of the fishing guides, I guessed, who’d spent the night aground. Or had fallen into the Budweiser trap at ’Tween Waters or Temptation Bar on Boca Grande. The boat was returning, not leaving, that was obvious, so I untangled myself from the hammock, found my glasses, and went to the railing to have a look.

It wasn’t Jeth, or Neville, or any of the other guides. The boat was a twenty-one-foot flats skiff, a custom-built Maverick with an oversized outboard. Even through fogged glasses, I had no trouble recognizing the lines because the skiff had been mine up until a few months ago when I’d sold it. Standing at the wheel, wearing a dark foul-weather jacket, black hair spilling from beneath a visor, was the new owner—a fishing guide . . . Hannah Smith.

Yep, it was Hannah . . . no mistaking those long legs, the lazy country-girl way she moved, or the angularity of her face. Coming to pay me a visit, apparently.

I was wearing running shorts, nothing else, so I walked back to the hammock to get my clothes, wondering, Why the hell didn’t she call? You don’t just drop in at a friend’s house before sunrise on a Tuesday morning. I hadn’t heard a word from Hannah since our phone conversation, so the thought that something was wrong crossed my mind. Privately, though, I was pleased that her hardheaded ego had been softened by a sudden need to see me.

My shirt was dew-sopped, so I was wearing only jeans when I returned to the railing and motioned Hannah toward my dock. She replied with a vague salute, then focused on the marina, which, I soon realized, was her way of communicating her actual destination. Not just the marina basin, either. I stood there feeling dumb, then confused as I watched her swing the Maverick expertly toward A-Dock and throttle into reverse when she was abeam the swim platform of the largest vessel. It was the Lamberti, SEDUCI in gold letters on the stern.

What the hell was she doing?

It was a question soon answered when a smiling Vargas Diemer, the Brazilian thief and hit man, appeared in the cabin doorway. He waved and called, “Es precisely timed, captain! I have tied several new flies for today!” Sound carries over water, the man’s words and accent—Pre-zicely timed cap-a-tan!—were clear.

Un-damn-believable. Diemer, the jet-set assassin, had booked Hannah as his fishing guide! No other way to explain it. And nothing I could do but stand there feeling even dumber as I watched him